Read Online Xenopath by Eric Brown - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Eric Brown
Tags: Bengal Station
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Vaughan detected a haze of sadness in her eyes.
He took a
mouthful of coffee, too on edge to fully appreciate its excellence.
"Are you aware of anything that might explain why someone wanted
your husband dead, Mrs Kormier?"
She stared into
her coffee. In a small voice, she said, "Robert was a good man,
a respected academic. He never made an enemy in his life."
But, he thought,
she was holding something back. He knew it from some almost
subliminal reading of her facial mannerisms, a slight tightening of
her lips, a sidewise shift of her eyes away from him as she spoke.
He said, gently,
"What is it?"
She looked up,
surprised. "I thought you weren't reading me?"
"I'm not.
That is, I'm not reading your thoughts." He shrugged. "Telepaths
become very aware of moods and nuances." He hesitated, then
said, "Maybe later, if it's okay?"
She nodded, a
slight frown pulling at her lips.
He went on,
"Something is worrying you, though. Something about your
husband. You didn't want to mention it, but..."
She manufactured
a brave smile, even a laugh, almost of relief. "You're very
astute, Mr Vaughan. Yes, there was something. I don't know if it's in
any way connected with what happened—"
"Let me be
the judge of that," he said.
"Very
well." She laid her cup aside and stared at her hands, as if
wondering where to begin. She looked up. "Earlier this year
Robert was posted to the colony world of Mallory, Eta Ophiuchi VII.
It's a Scheering-Lassiter world. They wanted him to look at some
aspect of population control of a native herbivore: he was
commissioned to produce an extensive bio-ecological report on local
conditions."
"And?"
She looked at
him, silent for a second. "When Robert returned from Mallory,
he'd changed. Something had happened out there—" She
stopped abruptly and made a production of pouring more coffee so as
to hide her distress.
Vaughan waited,
then said, "He didn't tell you what happened, though?"
She shook her
head. "It was obvious that something was wrong. He was quiet,
withdrawn. Irritable. Usually, he discussed every aspect of his work
with me—as I did my own work with him. But he said nothing and
wouldn't be drawn, even when I asked him about the report he was
working on. He denied that anything was wrong, Mr Vaughan. He was...
he seemed a different person."
"You've no
suspicions what might have happened, nothing at all?"
She forced a
laugh. "Of course I had—I have— my
suspicions. It occurred to me that he'd discovered something on
Mallory so... I don't know... so dreadful that he couldn't even share
it with me. But," she went on, "I also suspected something
far more prosaic, but perhaps more hurtful to me."
He knew what was
coming, and she obliged him by saying, "I suspect that he met
someone out there, Mr Vaughan. He was having an affair."
Vaughan nodded,
feeling for the widow who might never know, for certain, if her
husband had been unfaithful. "If you don't mind me asking, what
made you suspect this?"
She sighed. She
was close to tears. "Twice during the last couple of months he
went out late, without explanation, and came back in the early hours.
He refused to speak to me about where he'd been. We were not sleeping
together at this point, Mr Vaughan. We were leading separate lives."
"And of
course you have no idea where he went."
"No,"
she said, then went on, "My husband kept an extensive diary.
Handwritten. Had done so for almost twenty years."
"You have
it?"
"It's in
his study."
Vaughan lowered
his cup. "And you haven't been able to bring yourself to read
it, right?"
She almost
laughed, then. "You understand. Mr Vaughan. I had hoped you
would. You see... part of me wanted to know, but another part... I
don't want to hate my husband, Mr Vaughan. I want to remember all our
good times together."
"You don't
mind if I take a look at the diary?"
"Of course
not. I'll show you to his study." She led him from the room,
across a gallery and into a study the mirror
He took a
mouthful of coffee, too on edge to fully appreciate its excellence.
"Are you aware of anything that might explain why someone wanted
your husband dead, Mrs Kormier?"
She stared into
her coffee. In a small voice, she said, "Robert was a good man,
a respected academic. He never made an enemy in his life."
But, he thought,
she was holding something back. He knew it from some almost
subliminal reading of her facial mannerisms, a slight tightening of
her lips, a sidewise shift of her eyes away from him as she spoke.
He said, gently,
"What is it?"
She looked up,
surprised. "I thought you weren't reading me?"
"I'm not.
That is, I'm not reading your thoughts." He shrugged. "Telepaths
become very aware of moods and nuances." He hesitated, then
said, "Maybe later, if it's okay?"
She nodded, a
slight frown pulling at her lips.
He went on,
"Something is worrying you, though. Something about your
husband. You didn't want to mention it, but..."
She manufactured
a brave smile, even a laugh, almost of relief. "You're very
astute, Mr Vaughan. Yes, there was something. I don't know if it's in
any way connected with what happened—"
"Let me be
the judge of that," he said.
"Very
well." She laid her cup aside and stared at her hands, as if
wondering where to begin. She looked up. "Earlier this year
Robert was posted to the colony world of Mallory, Eta Ophiuchi VII.
It's a Scheering-Lassiter world. They wanted him to look at some
aspect of population control of a native herbivore: he was
commissioned to produce an extensive bio-ecological report on local
conditions."
"And?"
She looked at
him, silent for a second. "When Robert returned from Mallory,
he'd changed. Something had happened out there—" She
stopped abruptly and made a production of pouring more coffee so as
to hide her distress.
Vaughan waited,
then said, "He didn't tell you what happened, though?"
She shook her
head. "It was obvious that something was wrong. He was quiet,
withdrawn. Irritable. Usually, he discussed every aspect of his work
with me—as I did my own work with him. But he said nothing and
wouldn't be drawn, even when I asked him about the report he was
working on. He denied that anything was wrong, Mr Vaughan. He was...
he seemed a different person."
"You've no
suspicions what might have happened, nothing at all?"
She forced a
laugh. "Of course I had—I have— my
suspicions. It occurred to me that he'd discovered something on
Mallory so... I don't know... so dreadful that he couldn't even share
it with me. But," she went on, "I also suspected something
far more prosaic, but perhaps more hurtful to me."
He knew what was
coming, and she obliged him by saying, "I suspect that he met
someone out there, Mr Vaughan. He was having an affair."
Vaughan nodded,
feeling for the widow who might never know, for certain, if her
husband had been unfaithful. "If you don't mind me asking, what
made you suspect this?"
She sighed. She
was close to tears. "Twice during the last couple of months he
went out late, without explanation, and came back in the early hours.
He refused to speak to me about where he'd been. We were not sleeping
together at this point, Mr Vaughan. We were leading separate lives."
"And of
course you have no idea where he went."
"No,"
she said, then went on, "My husband kept an extensive diary.
Handwritten. Had done so for almost twenty years."
"You have
it?"
"It's in
his study."
Vaughan lowered
his cup. "And you haven't been able to bring yourself to read
it, right?"
She almost
laughed, then. "You understand. Mr Vaughan. I had hoped you
would. You see... part of me wanted to know, but another part... I
don't want to hate my husband, Mr Vaughan. I want to remember all our
good times together."
"You don't
mind if I take a look at the diary?"
"Of course
not. I'll show you to his study." She led him from the room,
across a gallery and into a study the mirror
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